Christmas Dinner
by MadBat27
Summary: The Bat Family gather for a family meal, but an unexpected guest arrives. Final Christmas Fanfic.


The Annual Wayne Christmas Ball had been a success once again, thankfully spared the attention of any of Gotham's resident psychopaths. But Bruce's hosting duties had not yet been completed. The Christmas Eve Ball had been a tradition as far back as his Grandfather Patrick Wayne, but it had always been equally important that Christmas Day itself was a family occasion. It was one day Bruce could count on his Father being home from work, and for that reason alone it was Bruce's favourite holiday.

Fondly, he reminisced of days spent with his parents, exchanging gifts, watching the snow fall outside and enjoying Christmas dinner. It was the one time of year, Thomas Wayne cooked, and Alfred dined at the table as one of the family. The stuffing was often overcooked, the quail dry, the dressing piled on higher than necessary, and the desserts were never ready on time. But that was all part of the experience of Christmas.

Now, the tradition fell to Bruce.

With the plum pudding and Christmas pudding both ready to be placed in the oven, and the main course minutes from perfection, Bruce wiped his brow and congratulated himself silently on a job well done. Then he marched into the lounge to check on his …not guests. His family.

Dick Grayson lounged across the chaise long, teasing Tim about a girl he liked, or so it seemed. Tim quickly shut up as Bruce entered the room, and glared at Dick to keep him quiet. Dick merely smiled. Alfred was nowhere to be seen, but before Bruce could ask after him, he appeared in the doorway, leading a female figure into the house.

"Miss Bertinelli has arrived, sir."

"So I see. I'm glad you could make it, Helena. Please, come in, take a seat," Bruce said. "But why are you answering the door, Alfred? You don't have to. Not today."

"If I didn't, the young lady would catch her death of cold."

Bruce frowned at the two boys… men, he supposed. Dick especially had grown up, hardly recognizable from the small circus boy he'd taken as a ward all those years ago. The young man shrugged, and stroked his long dark hair from his face. Tim, too, had transformed; taller, stronger, more confident. All the naiveté of youth had gone, for better or worse. In truth, Bruce couldn't have been prouder of his wards. His sons.

"We're guests here," the eldest said.

"It's your house too."

He turned back to Helena, who squatted by the Christmas tree, removing wrapped gifts from her bag and placing them under the tree, along with the piles already there. Her present were hastily wrapped in purple paper, and Bruce knew instinctively that she would apologize before anyone had the chance to open one. He also had a hunch that she'd forgotten Alfred.

In the reception room, the 10ft tree was a relatively modest affair, shedding green pines to make a seasonal welcome mat. Ornate baubles hung from the branches alongside chocolates, candy canes and cuddly snowmen on strings, all of which were handed out to the children of guests over the winter season. Beneath the tree, showered in green, sat the piles upon piles of Christmas gifts. Bruce had never cared for material things, not since he was eight years old. Nor did he relish the act of gift-giving. But the playboy billionaire charade demanded extravagance. At least, he reasoned, it was a chance to show his appreciation for his loved ones, if onyl in a shallow way. It was something he struggled with. He hoped they knew.

"I'm sorry Helena, we'll talk later, but the food is on the brink of burning," Bruce said, making his way back towards the kitchen.

"No, please. I understand. Go."

"No, don't bother," Mrs. Chilton declared, helping Alfred carry platters of food to the table. "Same as your father, always too busy to concentrate. You give us the day off and then we're still here cleaning up after you. Every year the same."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Chilton. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Oh, I know. You're such a good boy," the old cleaning woman said, patting his cheek in a grandmotherly way. "So much like your father."

Bruce smiled. He never liked the idea of taking time to be with his family, but every year he was reminded of how important it was to him. How much he needed it. For the only time in the entire calendar year, he found himself smiling, laughing, and chatting with people he counted as friends. Not forcing the smile. Not feigning ignorance.

Memories flooded back, not just of his parents, but of all the Christmases past. The years Luscious Fox and his son had attended, last year when Jim and Barbara Gordon had been present, years when Diana, or Clark, or John and Zatanna had graced the Wayne Manor. Suddenly, for just a few hours, he felt at peace. At home. For just a little while, Gotham didn't seem like such a bad place, and all his efforts had counted for something.

Helena Bertinelli beamed, deep in conversation with an equally content Richard Grayson. Mrs. Chilton fussed over a giggling Tim Drake, and even the staunch butler allowed his stiff upper lip to curl into a smile. Bruce closed his eyes a moment, committing the scene to memory, remembering to hold close to this feeling, to treasure this rarity: happiness. He'd need it over the coming year, to preserve hope, maintain determination, to remember why he fights. And to remember in a year time, when next his family gathered.

A chime echoed through the house, alerting them to a guest at the door. Selina perhaps? Gordon? Fox? One of the League?

"Don't worry, Alfred. I've got it this time," Bruce assured him.

The bell chimed once more as he made his way through the stately manor, pausing briefly, as he always did, beneath the portrait of his parents. The fire crackled in the drawing room, the lights flickered on the tree. It really was picturesque. If only the world outside could reflect the bubble of joy within Wayne Manor.

Opening the door, Bruce smiled and opened his mouth to greet his latest guest. But the words never left his mouth. The man on his doorstep was young, a few years Grayson's junior, with slick black hair except for a white forelock. Bruce could smell tobacco on his clothes, and alcohol on his breath. The man sneered.

"Room at the table for one more?"

Bruce's eyes grew wide.

"Jason."


End file.
